The Case of the Mysterious Box
by Glory1863
Summary: Dr. John Watson's birthday had apparently passed by unnoticed when the 4077 MASH was innundated with casualties. Not a matter of consequence in the grand scheme of things, unless one is far from home and feeling very much alone.


Dr. John Watson trudged back toward his billet in the Swamp after an exhausting 36 hours, most of it spent in the OR up to his elbows in blood and guts. He hadn't had a day – correction, day and a half - like this since the last year that he'd been a specialist registrar.

What had Colonel Potter said earlier that afternoon? If they didn't get emergency supplies in from I Corps damn soon, they'd be reduced to practicing real Civil War medicine. Watson was pretty sure that his current CO would know about that. No, Potter wasn't **that** old, he just had a deep and abiding interest in the battle of Antietam and had told Watson **all** about it over a beer (or 2 or 3) down at Rosie's. It was nice, normal, room temperature beer, not the cold, fizzy stuff the Yanks preferred, although as Watson remembered it, and his memory might be a bit fuzzy on the subject, Rosie was angry because the refrigeration unit had gone out and neither Klinger nor Radar had been able to scrounge the parts to fix it.

Watson found himself at the entrance to the Swamp with absolutely no memory of how he'd gotten there. He could have walked past General Douglas Bloody MacArthur and never noticed. No, no he couldn't have. President Truman had cashiered the man.

Watson plopped down on his cot and scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. God, he hated it when he got like this. Exhaustion made his thoughts flit from one thing to another, and usually to things of no substance. Was this what it was like to be his friend, Major Sherlock Holmes, G2 for brigade? Watson could think quickly and to good purpose when it came to things medical, but to have his mind run at speed like that every waking minute, as Sherlock's apparently did, was beyond comprehension.

Sherlock. It would have been nice to have heard from his friend today. Sherlock would have remembered. Sometime in the past 36 hours John Watson's birthday had gone by unnoticed. He'd barely remembered it himself until now. Well, it really wasn't reasonable to think that the 4077 MASH would remember, much less throw him a drunken party as they had for Captain Pierce, even if they hadn't been inundated by casualties. Watson was new here, only temporarily on loan until a Major Winchester should make his appearance. Still, it would have been nice if someone had at least said something. Feeling quite alone and forgotten, he lay down and was immediately asleep still in fatigues and boots.

It was a dream. He knew that, in the strange way dreams had, and yet he also believed it to be absolutely real. He was in a comfortable, well-appointed office somewhere in Whitehall and Anthea, Mycroft Holmes' stunning secretary, was actually looking up from her typewriter and smiling at him. She was smiling at plain, simple, Dr. John Watson. Things like that just didn't happen to him. Nothing ever happened to him. Yet not only was she smiling at him, she was about to accept his invitation to join him for High Tea at the poshest hotel in London.

And then it all dissolved. A sixth sense he had developed and honed to a high degree as a house officer alerted him to the fact that someone else was in the room and that he needed to wake up **now**.

_Bloody hell!_ He dragged his arm across his eyes. It was a good thing that he hadn't actually voiced that thought. It wouldn't do to use such language within the hearing of Sister Elizabeth Anne. It would be more than a bit not good if she were to report to the senior attending on service that a lowly house officer had been uncooperative and disrespectful. As he struggled to sit up and swing his legs off the cot, he mumbled, "On my way, Sister. Might I trouble you for the patient's name again, please?"

"Uh, Captain Watson? It's me, Radar," a high-pitched voice stuttered. "Sorry I woke you, sir. This came with the emergency supplies from I Corps." The young man was holding a small box that appeared to have been hastily wrapped in pages from an old issue of _Stars and Stripes_. "I thought I would just drop it off for you. Captain Pierce never wakes up when I do that for him."

"No worries, Radar. Being a light sleeper is a skill I picked up in training." Watson was awake enough now to offer Radar a small, tired smile that didn't touch his eyes as he reached out for the box. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, sir." Radar returned the smile as he handed it over. "I guess you and Captain Pierce didn't train at the same place."

Watson chuckled softly at that. "No, probably not." His mind really wasn't on Radar anymore as he'd noticed that the label on the package bore the unmistakable bold scrawl of his friend, Sherlock Holmes.

Just before he left the Swamp, Radar hesitated, then turned back. "I know it's a bit late, but happy birthday, Captain Watson."

Watson's head snapped up, eyes wide. "It's very kind of you to remember, Radar. Thank you." Watson's smile had grown, pleasure erasing some of the tiredness.

Watson rummaged about in a pocket of his kit that held a small collection of odds and ends until he found the spare pair of Metzenbaums which he used to cut the twine on the package. He then carefully slit open the note from Holmes.

John,

I came across this in Tokyo a fortnight ago and immediately thought of you as it concerns the only vice you have of which I am aware.

You have undoubtedly been most seriously engaged of late. I know how single-minded you are in the care of your patients, even to the detriment of your own well-being. You neither eat nor sleep enough.

Therefore, let me make it perfectly clear to you that you will not donate this to one of your padre's causes. You will not allow it to be used in one of Corporal Klinger's trading schemes. You will most certainly not use it to entice Major Houlihan into your cot. This is for your use and your use only, and it you do not use it as intended, then rest assured that I will come to know of it and I will be forced to take the appropriate drastic measures.

Sherlock

Watson shook his head in disbelief. What the hell was this? He regarded the box suspiciously now. If Sherlock were here, they'd probably end up playing 20 Questions as Sherlock pushed him to deduce what was inside before unwrapping it. Well, what could he make of it?

It was a fairly small box with a weight of about 2 pounds. It contained smaller items that rattled a bit when lightly shaken. He could feel through the wrapping that the box had a separate, removable lid. It was definitely a box – the sides gave a bit with light pressure – not a tin. No obvious smell, but that could be masked by the fact that a bottle of iodine included with the medical supplies had broken, some of the contents having splashed on his package. There was not much else in the way of physical data that he could see.

What about clues in the note? It had been picked up in Tokyo. A luxury item, then? Though in his current circumstances that covered a lot of territory and not always things that people leading a comfortable life would consider luxurious. And yet, it must be something of value or Sherlock wouldn't be worried that others would cast covetous eyes upon it. But "valuable" covered a lot of ground, too, and for the same reason with the same caveat.

Probably something to eat, but something that was still edible after 2 weeks. That might narrow the field a bit.

His only vice? What was that about? Watson knew that most people considered him to be a decent enough bloke, but he was no saint. He had his share of vices (pleural). Did Sherlock consider whatever this vice was to be the worst of the lot or was he just getting a dig in about something that was of great importance to Watson but totally off his own radar?

"Sod this!" This time he did verbalize the rather inelegant thought. It was no fun to play this game alone. He tore the wrapping at one end of the package and noticed the side of a gold-colored heavy paper box and the slight scent of chocolate. He quickly pushed away the rest of the wrapping.

"God, yes! Godiva chocolate." He almost pumped the air with his fist in a victory salute. As he lifted the lid, Watson shut his eyes and inhaled deeply of the now almost overwhelming smell of chocolate. Two pounds of the finest truffles, their delicate dark bittersweet chocolate shells hiding an astonishing variety of fillings, even chocolate-covered chocolate. He knew without seeing them that Sherlock would remember that dark chocolate was his favorite.

When he finally opened his eyes, he saw the small card inside the box. "Happy birthday, John. SH"

What Watson had heretofore categorized as a bad day, one of the worst in memory, had been transformed by Radar's hesitant felicitations and Sherlock's unexpected generosity. It seemed that he had been mistaken, that he was neither alone nor forgotten, and that knowledge greatly eased his mind. His smile was radiant, and this time made it to his eyes.

He looked through the box, trying to remember the decorative "code" for chocolate-covered vanilla and heard in his mind Sherlock's voice proclaiming in exasperated amusement, "That one, you idiot," as Watson selected, correctly, the truffle in the right upper corner of the second layer. He sighed in satisfaction as he bit into it, and did his best to prolong and savor the experience, then closed the box and hid it away in his kit.

Relaxed now, Watson removed his boots and lay back down on his cot. If his newfound luck held, then when he returned to sleep the dream of the lovely Anthea would return as well. They'd go to that hotel for High Tea together and then, with the added inducement of two pounds of fine chocolate, she would accept his invitation to join him in his room. He was sure that Sherlock would understand and approve. After all, an intimate liaison with this beautiful and intelligent woman was Watson's most cherished dream.


End file.
